


Of the Sea

by PhoenixGryffin



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Consent Issues, F/M, Forced Marriage, Internalized Misogyny, Patriarchy, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:19:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4380506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixGryffin/pseuds/PhoenixGryffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thetis can feel the child kicking in her womb sometimes, feels less alone when it does. They are companions in their imprisonment, the two of them; the blood of the sea flows through their veins, and they are better for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> I highly recommend reading the tags before proceeding; if you believe that any of the subject material could potentially trigger or otherwise disturb you, please act accordingly.

Zeus has eyes for her.

This is not news to Thetis; she’s noticed the way the king of the gods looks at her for a long time now, his gaze briefly traveling up and down her form like it’s some sort of prized possession before he quickly looks somewhere else. She feels no love for him, but she’s never loved any man; if he asks her to be with him, she’s decided she’ll agree. It will help her social standing, if nothing else.

But Zeus never asks her to be with him. In fact, he does just the opposite, telling her that there is a prophecy about her as-yet-unconceived son.

“The child is destined to be more powerful than his father,” says Zeus, and Thetis raises her eyebrows just a bit, intrigued. She had never thought of her womb as an asset. It had always been only a burden, something that made her weaker than men. Now, however, it’s suddenly become a source of power for her.

“I understand,” Thetis replies smoothly. “Wouldn’t want my son to overpower the king of the gods, would I?”

Zeus only stares at her with an indecipherable expression before disappearing, leaving Thetis alone on the beach near her home, the sea. Thetis dives to its depths like always, thinking very little of the matter. After all, prophecies are issued all the time but often never fulfilled for hundreds or thousands of years afterwards; there’s plenty of time. Perhaps at some point she would decide to marry a minor sea god, but for now there’s no need to worry.

One day, Thetis rises from the sea in the same place she does everyday; she emerges, water droplets flashing through the air as though they were tiny glistening diamonds, and settles down onto the warm sand to sleep. The sun’s heat is a comforting blanket, and her eyes begin to close almost immediately.

Something forcefully grips her arm—she’s fully awake almost immediately, trying to yank her arm free before she even knows what it is that’s got hold of her.

It doesn’t let go. She turns and sees a mortal, only a mortal. He’s male, with a light-colored hair and beard; that’s all she notices about him before he grabs her other arm. She panics, trying to throw him off, but his viselike grip doesn’t slacken. It doesn’t make sense. He’s just a _mortal_ ; getting rid of him should be easy.

“What are you—” she begins, but the man pushes her down flat on her back, and she realizes _exactly_ what he intends. No. He _can’t_ do this. She’s not one of his kitchen wenches, and she won’t be violated by the likes of some mortal.

Thetis begins to change her shape, turning first into various types of fish, trying to slip from his grasp. When that doesn’t work, she takes an offensive tactic, viciously attacking the man as he draws ever nearer her body.

She is claws and teeth and stingers, writhing and twisting in her fury. He doesn't let go; Thetis fights him, draws blood, but he still doesn't let go.

She is a lion. She is an eel. His fingernails dig into first flesh, then scales, then flesh again. Her skin becomes raw and red, scraped against the sand’s coarseness, and he _still_ won’t let go.

No ordinary mortal could do this, could keep holding on the way he is now.

She is a tiger.

The gods must have helped him.

She is a wolf.

They knew about this, they _knew_ , and they helped him do it. The knowledge shouldn’t hurt, but _oh_ , it does. They’d betrayed her.

She is a bird, but he’s grasping her wings so tightly that they’re being painfully twisted back, and she can’t fly away. And then, quite suddenly, she isn’t anything at all. She closes her eyes.

When it’s over, she’s only a woman, a woman covered in both his blood and her ichor, a woman with a searing pain deep inside that won’t go away. Thetis forces her shaking form to rise, glares daggers at the mortal as she does so. He’s lying on the beach next to her, clearly exhausted. Upon hearing her stir, however, he rises a bit and smiles faintly. Thetis bares her teeth. He’s _not_ going to get near her again. She’ll make sure of that.

“My darling wife—” he begins.

“I am no wife of _yours_ ,” hisses Thetis, still shaking from both fury and terror. Before he can make any sort of foolish mortal reply she’s disappeared, gone to the throne room of Mount Olympus.

They whisper between themselves when she arrives; it’s as if they’re mortal schoolchildren and she’s a new student. Too late, Thetis realizes she’s still in her torn dress, still bleeding from the scrapes she’d received from both the sand and the mortal’s clumsy, rough hands all over her. It doesn’t matter, really. Let them see what they’ve done to her.

“May I ask,” says Thetis, stalking up to Zeus and trying to make herself look as imposing as she possibly can despite both her current appearance and status as only a minor goddess, “how precisely a _mortal_ became aware of the place where I rest?"

“You may,” replies Zeus, and it could only be Thetis’ imagination, but he seems to smile just a bit, and it’s as if every single nerve in her body has been lit aflame from sheer fury. How _dare_ he mock her pain.

“I _have_ asked,” Thetis says coldly. “I await your response.”

“You are aware of the prophecy, then?”

“The one about my son.” It’s not a question. “Of course. You mentioned it some time ago—if I recall correctly, it was the reason you refused to court me.”

Zeus stops smiling at that, and out of the corner of her eye Thetis notices that Hera, queen of the gods and Zeus’ wife, isn’t smiling either.

“...Yes,” says Zeus. “As you undoubtedly recall, the prophecy stated that your son would be stronger than his father—”

“So. You gave me to a mortal,” interrupts Thetis, a feeling of dread deep in the pit of her stomach. He’d planned this. Perhaps they _all_ had, together; wouldn’t want Thetis’ son to overpower them, so they’d set up their foolproof plan. The mortal would get to bed a goddess, and the gods would be in no danger from his son. A happy ending for everyone.

Except, of course, for Thetis.

Zeus glares at her for the interruption but doesn’t verbally chastise her, instead saying, “Correct. The mortal Peleus is virtuous, deserving. Any woman would count herself lucky to be his wife.”

His _wife_. The throne room suddenly seems very, very small.

In defiance, Thetis tilts her chin up ever higher, declares, “But you underestimate me. I am a _goddess_ —not half as easily won as some mortal woman.”

“Be that as it may,” says Zeus, “the contract is still binding.”

“ _What_ contr—” begins Thetis, but Zeus only indiscreetly motions toward her torn dress. Her maidenhead, then. Thetis had never agreed to anything, but it had been a contract regardless.

Despite her attempt to appear emotionless, Zeus must notice at least some of her terror, because in a slightly more comforting tone he says, “The binding part of the contract only lasts a year, although most in similar situations eventually grow to love their husbands and choose to stay with them. Perhaps such a thing will happen with you.”

“I doubt that very much,” says Thetis as coldly as she can manage. Slowly, she lowers her head, ready to leave and face whatever horrors the next year has in store for her.

“Thetis,” Zeus says, and she jerks her head up. She doesn’t respond, merely waiting for him to continue.

“Consider me in your debt,” he finishes. Thetis knows she should say something to thank him, but she doesn’t trust herself to speak, so she only nods before disappearing and forcing herself to return to the beach where her new husband waits.

* * *

The mortal—Peleus is his name, Zeus had said—leads her to his castle. He seems to be very proud of it, but it’s dark and dusty and Thetis can feel herself shrinking the moment she enters, dwarfed by the towering gray walls. The sea is dark as well, yes, but it’s a comforting dark, an open dark. Here there is only confinement.

Peleus reaches for her hands, but she reflexively pulls away.

“Darling,” he says, and Thetis only stares at him, “we are bound together, lest you forget—”

“Be that as it may,” replies Thetis, voice like ice, “my daylight hours are my own.”

“But—”

“ _I_ am no weak-willed peasant girl,” laughs Thetis bitterly.

Peleus only stares at her for a moment before nodding sharply.

“So long as you remain in the castle,” Peleus says, and Thetis feels a cold fury at the thought of staying in here day after day like a prisoner, “you are free to use the hours of the day as you see fit.” He walks away to bark orders to a maid, and Thetis can feel the eyes of the rest of the servants on her, can feel the questions in their burning gazes. It appears she is to be simply a curiosity for mortals, nothing more.

Thetis spends the remainder of her daylight hours in the bedroom, dully staring out the window. If she looks for long enough, maybe the sea will appear.

Eventually, the sun goes down, but Thetis refuses to tear her attention from the window, not even bothering to turn and face her husband once he enters the room.

“Thetis,” he croons softly, in a voice that’s more gentle than anything she’s heard from him. Unwillingly, she turns herself to face Peleus and he’s _there_ , right in front of her; he grabs her by the shoulders and kisses her on the lips, hard. She remains perfectly still, tense and brittle like a porcelain doll. All her instincts are screaming for her to _fight_ him, claw him across the eyes, knock him down, and escape.  
But that would be unwifelike.

There’s no point in fighting. She’ll have to accept it at some point; better sooner than later. It’s better now when he’s inclined to be gentle with her.

He guides her to the bed, and she closes her eyes, braces in case of pain, pretends that the back-and-forth motion is merely that of the waves crashing against the beach. When she has to be, she is very good at pretending.

Thetis lies as still as possible until the ordeal is over and Peleus has collapsed, exhausted, onto the bed next to her. Once she’s sure he’s asleep, she rises in search of water. She finds some stored in jars and begins slowly cleansing herself, but the water’s musty, stale, not at all like the raging and unpredictable waves of the sea.

The days pass slowly; Thetis has lived for many, many years, but time seems to nearly come to a standstill in the forbidding, gloomy castle. Each day, once Peleus has had his fill of her, she marks a tiny scratch on the wall next to the bed. There are hardly any as of yet, and her heart sinks whenever she realizes it. She never once cries, though. A lesser woman might have shed tears, perhaps, but not the goddess Thetis, daughter of Nereus.

The things Peleus does to her at night, though terrifying and at times painful, aren’t the worst of her situation by any means. No, the worst of it is the absolute humiliation. When guests come over and Peleus introduces her as his wife, they glance at her quizzically, undoubtedly wondering how on earth Peleus managed to win himself a goddess, and she wants to disappear.

She refuses to yield to his feigned kindness, (for it’s all an act; no one who had taken her that forcefully can truly be kind) meeting his hesitant smiles with icy glares and refusing to speak with his guests. To think of _her_ conversing with mortals at dinner parties! She’d rather _die_.

On the days when there’s no one around to gawk at her, Thetis usually finds an unoccupied room at the castle, one with a window. The castle is too far away from the sea for her to actually get a glimpse of her old home with the eyesight she possesses in her mortal form, but perhaps it is better that way. It’s harder to miss something unseen.

About a month and a half into her ordeal, she discovers that she is expecting. This will be the child, then: the son of Thetis, the one foretold to be stronger than his father. Thetis hadn’t planned to love the baby, this spawn of Peleus, but the child is not his at all. It’s _hers_. She was the one mentioned in the prophecy, after all. It will be her blood that makes her son great.

She breaks the news to Peleus that night just as he is about to claim his conjugal right.

“You—expecting? Our child?” asks Peleus, and he smiles more widely than Thetis has ever seen him smile before. His hands immediately fly to her stomach; Thetis glares daggers at him, but he continues beaming, oblivious to her hatred.

“Yes,” she says coldly. “ _My_ child.” Peleus catches the emphasis on _my_ and frowns.

“ _Our_ child,” he replies stubbornly, “as we are husband and wife.”

“I hardly think you are the one carrying him,” scoffs Thetis. “Mine.”

“Not after it’s born,” Peleus replies, unwilling to go down without a fight. “A son, after all, belongs to his father.”

“Unless, of course, his mother is a _goddess_ ,” hisses Thetis.

“Goddess or _not_ ,” Peleus roars, suddenly enraged, “a man possesses authority over his wife.”

There is nothing else for Thetis to say; she merely roughly pushes his hand away from her stomach, mentally reminding herself that in less than a year’s time she will no longer be his wife. She will be more powerful than this mortal once again, and everything will be as it should.

Out of the darkness of her womb comes the only bright point in Thetis’ captivity; as her belly grows, Thetis takes to speaking to the child in the moments when no one else is around. Where other prospective mothers might have sung lullabies or whispered words of sweetness, Thetis speaks of destruction and the godlike sensation of wielding power over mortals. After all, if her son is going to be more powerful than his father, he will need to know of such things.

Who knows, perhaps one day her son will even kill Peleus. Thetis certainly wouldn’t protest if such a thing were to transpire.

Peleus’ guests, when they visit, notice her pregnant state; she hears a few of them talking of it one day and decides to listen to their conversation. A mortal would not have been able to hear them from this distance, but despite being in a mortal form, she is not and has never been one of them.

“Peleus,” says a deep voice, one Thetis is not familiar with, “I admit, I _am_ surprised.”

“At what?” _This_ voice is one Thetis knows all too well and would be perfectly happy never to hear again.

“Why, you, of course.” Laughter; there are at least three men, if not more. “I would never have guessed that such a man as you could bed a _goddess_.” More laughter. Thetis clenches her fists tightly but does not move from the damp alcove where she’s sheltered herself.

“The gods favor me,” says Peleus, words slightly slurred, “and they deemed me worthy of such an honor as—”

“Honor!” A different voice, somewhat scratchy. “Oh, I have heard tales of your great honor, all right—they say your wife _despises_ you.”

“Do they now,” replies Peleus, voice cold; Thetis has long since stopped being afraid of him but shudders despite herself. “What, exactly, do they say?”

“Well,” begins the scratchy voice, “they say she lacks womanly qualities of affection—”

“They need not _say_ such things,” interrupts the first voice, “for it’s already apparent simply upon viewing the two of you together.” More laughter. “Peleus, are you _sure_ the child is yours?”

Peleus’ voice cuts through the guffaws. “Absolutely. The woman is so cold that she refuses to let anyone but me touch her.” Thetis burns at hearing herself called _woman_ , as if she were one of _them_ , but remains perfectly still.

“Perhaps you are not as favored with the gods as you think,” says a new voice, and the laughter begins again. “Your wife seems more of a burden than a blessing.”

“Frigid though she is, you all forget she is a goddess, and my child shall possess the blood of Olympus,” retorts Peleus’ voice, and the laughter immediately ceases. ”Besides, I possess multiple servant girls who have more than enough passion to go around.” The laughter begins again; Thetis, sickened, decides she’s heard enough.

As she slowly walks back to her room, she supposes she should be upset over Peleus’ infidelity; after all, he is her husband. However, all she can manage is a strange sense of relief. Every minute he spends in the amorous embraces of those servant girls is one less minute with her.

The months pass, and she grows larger with each passing one. Thetis can feel the child kicking in her womb sometimes, feels less alone when it does. They are companions in their imprisonment, the two of them; the blood of the sea flows through their veins, and they are better for it.

Peleus feels entitled to the child as well, brazenly resting his hand on the curve of Thetis’ stomach whenever the opportunity arises. If it’s during the daytime, she aggressively shrugs him away, sometimes with a biting comment; if it’s night, she bears his touch until he falls asleep, at which point she tells the young one stories of hate, of crushing all who stand in his way. For that he will do, she’s sure of it. As a man who comes from both the lineage of gods and mortals, the child will be able to do anything, be whatever he wants. Thetis’ son— _her_ son, not Peleus’, for it is her blood that makes him who he is—will be great.

Eventually he is born; the birth itself is a horrible, humiliating experience, but Thetis recovers quickly, being a goddess. When it’s all over, there’s a small, golden-haired child shrieking his lungs out in the midwife’s arms. He’s perfect. Thetis holds out her arms for him, and the midwife obliges.

It’s only once she first holds him that she realizes what she hadn’t been able to tell from simply viewing the child—he is a mortal. There is no ichor flowing through his veins, only blood, blood that will one day congeal when her mortal son’s heart stops beating.

She screams for the first time since beginning her captivity, screams at the _unfairness_ of it all; the midwife turns very pale and flees the room. The child, startled, begins crying even louder. Thetis feels like crying as well, but resists the urge, instead trying to calm herself down by slowly breathing in and out. It will be alright. He will live and be great regardless.

But now that she’s seen the tiny, beautiful child, she doesn’t _want_ him to be great anymore. She wants him to live.

Peleus enters the room, still-blanched midwife in tow.

“Give me the child,” he says, opening his arms to Thetis, but she refuses. Her son has been a part of her for nine months. He belongs to her more than he does to Peleus.

Peleus, angered, moves in to take the baby, but the midwife holds her hand up in front of him; the child has stopped crying. Sighing deeply, Peleus turns to leave.

"Achilles," says Thetis.

"What?" Peleus turns around, glaring at Thetis.

"The child's name. Achilles. A suitable name for the son of a goddess."

Peleus continues glaring, but with the midwife there he can do nothing more threatening than that.

"Suit yourself," he says after what seems like a long time. "Achilles he is." With that, he leaves, slamming the door behind him. Achilles, startled, begins softly crying again.

"Be quiet, my Achilles," murmurs Thetis, scared that Peleus will try and take the child from her again if he hears. "You're safe here." Slowly but surely, Achilles stops his quiet wailing and merely stares at her.

Thetis, realizing she knows next to nothing about raising a child, begins whispering small untruths to the child; she tells him that everything will be all right, that he will live forever.

* * *

Eventually, Peleus forces Achilles away from her. He shows her son off all over the castle, bragging to every single servant about how wonderful his son is. Thetis burns with rage. Achilles is _her_ son. She'd carried Achilles within her for nine months, while the only part Peleus had played in Achilles' creation had consisted of roughly shoving himself inside her before rolling over and falling asleep. Hardly a strenuous task.

Still, though, as Achilles' mother, Thetis occasionally has time with him. The child is small and innocent; Thetis cannot believe that something so pure could have resulted from the union of her and Peleus.

However, the next month and a half is nearly unbearable in the moments when Thetis is away from her tiny son. Peleus beds her nearly every night, presumably trying to create another heir. Thetis lets him—even if she does begin expecting his child, she'll be free from her contract soon and will thus be able to take the baby with her and raise it as her own. But despite Peleus' best efforts, she never does conceive another child.

In the final week of her captivity, there are a multitude of scratches on the wall on the side of the bed, and Peleus is uncharacteristically gentle with her.

"Please stay, darling," he croons on the final night. Thetis rolls to the other side of the bed, deliberately not looking at him. "Achilles needs a mother—"

"And he will have one," says Thetis coldly. "I intend on visiting him from time to time."

"But not me."

Thetis laughs at that, a spiteful laugh. "Of course not."

"Isn't there anything I can—"

"No. Never."

Thetis can't see him, but she hears Peleus exhale wearily. A moment later the springs creak, and there's the soft sound of slippered feet padding away.

Thetis opens her eyes. He's gone—presumably to have his way with some servant girl, yes, but gone nonetheless. She marks a final scratch on the wall, feeling a cold surge of triumph within. Tomorrow, this year will be nothing but a horrible memory.

The next day Thetis rises early, being careful not to wake Peleus, who had apparently returned to her bed in the night. She's nearly at the door when it occurs to her to visit Achilles one last time.

Gently prizing open the nursery door, Thetis lets herself in, enters, and simply stares at her tiny, perfect son; she's tempted to touch him, but he'll surely wake up if she does so.

She'll miss him. The thought is strange—she certainly won't miss Peleus, won't miss the towering gray walls keeping her imprisoned here—but yes, she'll _desperately_ miss Achilles.

"Goodbye, my son," Thetis whispers, voice cracking a bit. "I—" She'd intended to say something else, something about how he will be great, but she can no longer find the words. It doesn't matter; the sleeping golden-haired child does not stir. He can't hear her.

Thetis leaves the room, closes the door softly behind her. From the nursery, it's only a short walk to the castle doors, and she nearly runs in her hurry to finally escape. At the door, she pauses briefly before flinging it open and letting in light, glorious light, unencumbered by walls or windows or _anything_ —

Thetis runs. She runs, and she doesn't stop until she gets to the beach, where she promptly dives into the water and swims all the way down to the comforting darkness of her home. It isn't until she gets there that it truly hits her—she's free. Not only is she completely free from the affairs of mortal men, but she's in Zeus' debt.

With luck, she'll never have to submit to a man's desires again. Down here in the depths of the sea, she's in her element. She has _power_. From now on, no one will _ever_ be able to stand in her way.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic spawned from a desire to see Thetis in a slightly more sympathetic light; too often, I felt _The Song of Achilles_ strayed towards an unfair tendency to demonize her, and I wanted to fix that at least somewhat.
> 
> Thank you for reading!!


End file.
